


Poorly decorated baked goods

by superangsty



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff without Plot, Kid Fic, M/M, honestly what else is there to say...., pta dad tom wambsgans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28855998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superangsty/pseuds/superangsty
Summary: "Greg? Honey? Get your hands off those cupcakes before I slap you."*Plotless day in the life of Tom, world's best helicopter dad
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	Poorly decorated baked goods

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [heirloom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584855) by [eg1701](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eg1701/pseuds/eg1701). 



> Disclaimer as always that my official stance on tomgreg is still 'I don't ship it'. Anyway here's 3k of tomgreg fic.
> 
> I read [eg1701's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eg1701/pseuds/eg1701) fic ['Heirloom'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584855) and decided I needed Super Involved Dad Tom in my life, 3k words of random scenes with no semblance of a plot later and here we are... not beta read bc who actually betas... we write bad fics and post them immediately like Men

Greg shuffles into the kitchen at half six, squinting at the bright light pouring in through the windows. He pulls on his robe as he walks, making a beeline to the coffee machine.

He’s been woken by the alarm at the same time every day for a year now, and still Tom is yet to see him look happy about that, or even look _awake_ as he gets up, which is why Tom has his own alarm for ten minutes before, reminding him to turn on the coffee so that it’s cooled down just enough for Greg to down it like a shot, which he does.

He puts his mug down on the counter with a thud – never in the dishwasher, no matter how much Tom nags, and shuffles up behind Tom, wrapping his arms round his waist and kissing him on the cheek, before dropping his chin to his shoulder.

Tom doesn’t smile. They’ve had the same morning routine for years, it’s boring, it’s unexciting. And if he does smile, he’s not facing Greg anyway, so what does it matter what he does with his face?

“Good run?” Greg mumbles, a sign that he’s still not fully woken up because Tom is very clearly not in his usual running attire.

“Didn’t go, dummy,” he replies, gesturing at – well, everything, really – the bowl in front of him, the palette knife in his hand, the apron tied round his waist. “I had to frost these cakes.”

“Cakes?” The steady pressure of Greg’s arms disappears as he extracts himself from Tom to try and grab one.

Tom turns to look at Greg and raises his eyebrows, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “Greg?” he starts, voice sickly sweet, “Honey? Get your hands off those cupcakes before I slap you.”

“Why would –” at Tom’s glare, Greg raises his hands in surrender, “why would you _make_ them if I can’t eat them?”

“It’s the PTA bake sale, we’re raising money for – well who the fuck cares, but –”

Greg sighs. “This is why I didn’t see you come to bed last night? Tom, just do what every other Trinity mom does and order a box from, like, Magnolia or somewhere.”

“I am _not_ ,” Tom says, scooping up some frosting and slapping it down onto a cake with more vigour than is strictly necessary, “’every other Trinity mom’, and I _will not_ be the lazy asshole dad who shows up with cakes that aren’t homemade while everyone talks behind my back about how my kid is missing a mother’s love.”

This, Tom knows, is not an actual issue. And Greg clearly knows that he knows, because he’s thankfully not saying anything. In Alice’s grade alone there are three other kids with gay parents, and not a single person cares so long as they can pay the $50,000 a year tuition, which they all do. It’s the scholarship parents who everyone takes issue with (not that Tom contributes to _those_ discussions, as a former scholarship kid himself).

Greg puts his elbows on the counter and rests his head in his hands. “So, like, get the housekeeper to make them, I just –”

“What, Greg?” Tom asks, crossing his arms.

“I love you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think you’re a great cook.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I bet these are – I bet they’re delicious, y’know, they’re always so – delicious.”

“But?”

“But,” Greg says, dragging it out like he doesn’t want to get to the end of the sentence, “they look like they were made by our five-year-old.”

Tom looks at the cupcake in his hand, then back up at his husband. “I could throw this at you,” he says, grinning, “you whiny bitch.”

Greg smirks back, standing up tall as he takes a step closer. “Softer than water bottles.”

“Oh my _god_ , Greg, how many years ago was that?” he asks, poking him in the ribs. “I think somebody needs to let go.”

“You throw something at me, like, at least once a week, so I really don’t think this is a _me_ problem,” Greg laughs, placing a hand on Tom’s hip to pull him closer, bumping their foreheads together.

It’s nice, the early morning, with the bright sun through the windows and no staff hovering around, no housekeeper occupying his kitchen or assistants whisking them off to meetings or nanny trying to wrangle their daughter out the door for school. And for once Tom’s not sweaty from his run, he’s showered and dressed and clean-shaven, and Greg – well, Greg’s in his pyjamas, but still it’s just – _nice_. Tom smiles, softly, and presses a kiss to Greg’s lips before pulling back.

“Alice’ll be up soon, I’ve gotta make her breakfast. Go get dressed,” he orders, stepping away.

“Five more minutes,” Greg whines, trying to grab Tom’s hand and pull him back in. “Where’s…” he pauses for a second, frowning as he searches for the right name. “Where’s the nanny, anyway? Shouldn’t she be here by now?”

“I gave _Lucy_ the day off,” Tom says, shaking Greg off him.

“Oh.” Greg tries to get hold of him again, but it’s a half-hearted attempt. “You’re not going to work?”

“It’s _bake sale day_ , Greg, of course I’m not.” He grabs a tea towel and whacks it against Greg’s hip. “Now go, shoo, or I’ll forget to do enough turkey bacon for you.”

*

When Tom was younger and more naïve, he used to dream of two things: first, being rich – not just upper-middle-class-my-parents-are-lawyers rich but _rich_ rich, and second, maybe even more importantly, he dreamt of being a dad. And always, of course, he’d dream that those two things would overlap, that he’d get to mingle at the school gates with New York’s elite and their yoga pants and Birkin bags while he dropped off his perfectly mannered, perfectly dressed children.

When he was with Shiv, a million years ago now, they’d never really discussed children. She was aware Tom wanted kids, and he was aware that she didn’t care either way so long as they didn’t get in the way of her career. If they _had_ had kids, they would probably have sent them to an English boarding school, just like Shiv and her brothers had been. It would have been cold, uninvolved. And Tom could probably have got used to that.

He and Greg hadn’t really discussed children either, because as soon as Tom brought it up Greg had just instantly _got it_. It was just after they’d got engaged, and Tom had drunk almost a whole bottle of wine to calm his nerves. And he’d gone over to Greg, perched on the very edge of the couch, and just sat there staring at him for a few moments. Greg, used to Tom acting weird by then, had just kept watching TV until Tom finally got himself together and blurted out “Greg, I want kids,” and Greg had paused the TV, blinked at him, and said “what, like right now? Can I finish antiques roadshow first?”

It was, of course, a bit more complicated than that, but it still felt really goddamned easy. During pre-nup negotiations Greg’s (Ewan’s) lawyers added a clause saying any children had to, biologically at least, be Greg’s (inheritance bullshit that Tom, tragically, would never have to worry about), and Greg had spent ten minutes trying to stammer out an apology before Tom understood what he was apologising for and told him that he didn’t care, that he’d love anything that came from Greg. A year into their marriage (because really, Tom wasn’t getting any younger), when they started thinking about surrogates and egg donors and Tom started putting the baby’s name on school waiting lists before it was even an embryo, Greg had snapped and asked why they couldn’t just send it to public school, and Tom had launched into his usual rant of how they were executives at the biggest media company in the world and they couldn’t _just_ do the same as the common people, which is how they reached the agreement that yes, they were equal partners in all things parenting _except_ for schooling and other ‘rich people social politics bullshit’, which Tom would handle on his own (in exchange, Greg would handle all the ‘Roy family politics bullshit’, because even years later Tom was still _persona non grata_ with them).

So now he’s here, standing in the courtyard of New York’s best elementary school, box of cupcakes in one hand and his (perfectly dressed, horrifically mannered) daughter’s shoulder in the other. Normally, of course, it would be swarming with nannies, but today it was mostly parents, all dressed in perfect smart-casual outfits, waiting to pay extortionate prices for average baked goods.

Once Alice has run off to join her friends, he goes over to Amanda, the Queen Mom (also known as the head of the PTA) and hands off his cakes to her.

"Tom," she says, lips pursed, "I know you like little Alice to feel included, but don't you think maybe you should've done the frosting, no?"

Tom doesn’t say anything, just chuckles and runs a hand through his (greying) hair.

He’s glad Greg isn’t there to gloat.

“So, Mandy,” he says, which he knows she hates, “where are we setting up, what do you need me on?”

“Tables, Tom,” she orders, with all the force of a drill sergeant. “You’re the only man we’ve got today, I need you and your… arms moving tables for us.”

She looks him up and down, lingering on his arms and shoulders, and Tom shifts awkwardly. He’s been a favourite with the moms ever since he showed up at the school and started volunteering for everything like ‘an overeager puppy’, and he’s friends with almost every parent at the school, he’s a friendly guy, he’s _likeable_ , dammit, no matter what his employees say, and he’s always a hit at the brunches and teas and galas, but they have a tendency to flip between treating him like their gay best friend (he tries to explain that he’s not actually _gay_ , but they rarely listen), and objectifying him as the Broad-Shouldered Handsome Involved Dad.

He fucking loves it.

“Just point the way, Amanda, I’m yours to command.”

“Then once you’re done I need you with me, talking with everyone who hasn’t contributed,” she says, wearing a vicious smile as she waves her clipboard at him, bright highlighter marks peppering the sheet on it.

*

“You’re coming to the fundraising party next month, Tom?” asks one of the moms, Heather somebody (her kids aren’t in the same grade as Alice, and really he can’t be expected to know who _every_ mom is).

The school day is almost over, and the group of them who’d gone out for a late lunch after the bake sale was done are slowly walking through the park, back to the school in time for pickup.

“Well, duh,” he replies, his tone as carefully light as it always is around these people. “I’d hardly miss a party I booked the entertainment for, would I?”

She chuckles, which is what he’d been aiming for, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “What are you putting in for the raffle?”

“Now, that would be spoiling the surprise,” he says with a wink, and what he really means by that is that he has exactly zero idea because last time he’d offered a cruise package and somehow hearing his name and ‘cruises’ in the same sentence still doesn’t sit well with people. He’d almost had to leave the PTA, it was so embarrassing. So this time he’s asked Greg to sort out ‘something cool’ and left it at that. Greg won’t remember, of course, but his assistant will, and she’s proven to be pretty good at the whole ‘gifts for rich people’ thing over the years.

“I’m still trying to find a sitter,” she says, “I know I’m leaving it a bit late, only three weeks to go, but our nanny can’t work nights and our usual sitter is my mom and she’s also invited.”

“Hah,” Tom replies, because he’s losing interest too quickly to actually laugh. “We’re lucky, Alice’s cousin is old enough to babysit now and desperate for a reason to stay out late, so we just use her.”

Well, Alice’s second cousin once removed, but that’s Roy Family Politics, and therefore not Tom’s problem.

“So Gregory’s coming too, then?”

Tom still can’t believe that oversized clown he calls his husband has actually fucking convinced people to call him _Gregory_ , but this is unfortunately the reality he’s living in.

“Oh, yeah, well. You know my Greg,” he says with a smile, even though she does not, in fact, know his Greg. They’ve met maybe twice. “He’ll take any excuse to dress up like an extra in a Bond film.”

“Right! I saw that thing in Tatler a couple months ago, just after the RECNY ball,” she says, grinning, and Tom bristles. He’s not bitter, or anything, but since Greg stumbled his way into Waystar Royco’s C-suite he’s been New York society’s darling and he’s treated like an actual Roy rather than Greg Hirsch from the middle of nowhere, Canada, which means that he gets articles in Tatler ranking his brightly coloured tuxes while Tom only gets to appear in that sort of thing as the partner who just happens to be in the photo too.

They’re just arriving at the school gates, thank god, so Tom says “excuse me, Heather, I think I see Alice coming out,” and walks briskly across the courtyard towards his daughter.

The hair that Tom had so carefully styled into French braids that morning is now in a single lopsided ponytail, and the bottom of her shirt is sticking out under her sweater. She sees Tom and grins, immediately starting to run over to him, dragging her coat on the ground. Which is fine, Tom tells himself. Not something to get upset about. She would’ve outgrown it in a few months anyway.

“Daddy!” She calls out, and he scoops her up into his arms before the force of her charging at him knocks them both over.

“Hey, babygirl,” he greets, ruffling her hair (not that you’d notice, the mess it’s in). “You have a good day?”

She grins. “At lunchtime, I found a _caterpillar_.”

“That’s…” messy, Tom thinks, dirt-under-the-fingernails, ladders in her tights kind of messy. “That’s _so cool_!” He puts her down, takes her backpack and swings it over his own shoulder, holding out a hand for her to grab. “Ready to go home?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, taking his hand.

It’s not a long walk home, and she skips along beside him the whole way, chatting happily about her classes and her friends and asking where the nanny is, and why Tom’s not at work, and why Greg _is_ at work, and what she’s going to do for her birthday six months from now, and why can’t she keep a bug as a pet, and –

“Can we have a cat?” she asks, as they’re standing in their building’s elevator.

Tom blinks. “Cats are boring. They sleep all day and get hair on your clothes.”

She shakes her head seriously. “My cat wouldn’t be like that. I’d train her.”

The elevator dings while Tom’s still thinking of a response, and he guides Alice into the penthouse and over to a stool at the kitchen counter. “You want a snack? Some juice?”

“I _want_ a cat.”

“Well, sweetie, we don’t have any of those in the fridge. How about some raisins, huh?”

She doesn’t answer but takes the raisins anyway, angrily popping them into her mouth one by one. “Papa would let me have a cat.”

Tom _just_ manages to hold back a laugh, but it’s close. The last time he’d seen Greg interact with a cat was before Alice was born, they’d been visiting Tom’s parents in St. Paul and, being too tall to really notice tiny things on the ground, had stepped on the end of their new kitten’s tail (it was _fine,_ just annoyed) and started cursing it out as it hissed and clawed at his legs. Besides, he, like Tom, was a dog person. That’s one of the things that made them perfect for each other.

“Well, you can ask your papa when he gets home later, _but_ I think he’ll say no too.”

“I got him a brownie at the bake sale, ‘cause he said you were starving him. He’ll be in my _debt_ ,” she says, though it sounds more like she’s saying ‘dett’.

Tom frowns. “Since when do you know about debt?”

“Dunno,” Alice replies with a shrug, “can I have a juice box?”

*

Later, when Alice is in bed and the evening’s dishes have been stacked in the dishwasher, Greg flops onto the couch, his head in Tom’s lap. Tom hands him his glass of wine and he sips at it, neck craned awkwardly so that he can stay lying down.

“Tom,” he starts, looking up to catch Tom’s eye. “Babe. We _can’t_ get a cat. I hate cats. _You_ hate cats. Why does she want a _cat_?”

“Fuck,” Tom groans, combing his fingers through Greg’s hair (he’s overdue for a haircut, and it’s starting to get floppy just how Tom loves and Greg hates), “Every other kid on the planet wants a puppy, why can’t she want a puppy? _I_ want a puppy, I miss Mondale.”

Greg pouts. “Me too. _Cats_ , man, who has _cats_? You know who has a cat? Connor has a cat. Willa made him get it. Our kid – our kid can’t end up like _Connor_.”

“Or Willa,” Tom agrees, pulling a face.

“Hey,” Greg lightly slaps Tom’s hand. “Willa’s my friend, she’s cool.” He takes another long sip of wine. “But no, our kid _definitely_ can’t end up like Willa.”

“So we’re not getting a cat.”

Greg nods. “We’re not getting a cat.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, letting the TV drone on until it reaches the next ad break.

“So how was work, anyway?” Tom asks, trying to keep his voice sounding Bright and Interested.

“Ugh, fine,” Greg groans, running a hand over his face. “I’ll, like, text Willa tomorrow. Ask where she got the stupid cat from.”

**Author's Note:**

> All I seem able to write lately is established relationship fic... but anyway, hope you enjoyed! As always, please leave comments and kudos and come talk to me on my tumblr [@superangsty](https://superangsty.tumblr.com/)


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